Better Yesterdays
by Angel Monroe
Summary: "No, no," she whispered with deepest regret. "I have to get up." Little did she know, the world turns on such banal decisions. Alternate Snow Day. You know you want to read it. T for eventual language and violence.
1. Prologue

_A/N: Okay, so I know this has been done at least a couple dozen times before, and it's also several seasons behind the times. And I also know I have a _Primeval_ fic that needs attention. But I've been watching the old seasons and have developed this slight(ly outrageous) obsession with Danny and Lindsay. So here you go, my alternate _Snow Day_. And I pinky-swear promise not to leave this one hanging. _

_Disclaimer: If I actually owned _CSI:NY_, a) I'd be rich and living in a much better apartment, b) I'd have LOTS more D/L scenes, c) I would clone Danny and keep him in my closet, and d) You might actually get something if you sued me. As it is, since I don't, you'd get my crappy 19" television and my collection of outdated textbooks. Sorry. _

* * *

Prologue

It was early when Lindsay Monroe felt an odd tickle on her nose, pulling her reluctantly out of a sound sleep. She could tell that it was early because the sun always shone directly through the window next to her bed, waking her almost without fail just before the buzz of her alarm clock.

But just now, in the stillness of early morning, she felt a sort of half-light on her face, only a thin film of pink behind her eyelids.

In the slow rise from sleep to waking, she felt something vaguely but not recently familiar—a gentle breath against her face, a tickle of hair beneath her fingers. She opened her eyes. She smiled.

"Hey."

He was a thing to behold in the morning, with his eyes half-lidded and tender, his voice thick and husky.

"Don't worry, just go back to sleep," he told her, and she was tempted to let that voice carry her back into oblivion. It would be easy, effortless. What she wouldn't give to call in sick and spend the day here with him, the noise of the city somehow muted through the cocoon of their new intimacy.

But she had to be to work at nine, and if she didn't move now she thought she might not have the strength to later.

"No, no," she whispered with deepest regret. "I have to get up."

Little did she know, the world turns on such banal decisions.

"I have to get back to my apartment and change," she continued when he started to grumble. "What would it look like if I walked into the lab in yesterday's clothes?"

"You can wear one of my shirts."

"And how would _that_ look?"

He grumbled again and pulled her closer, locking her against his side. "I don't care."

She laughed and sighed and almost gave in, but in the end managed to extricate herself.

"Go back to sleep," she whispered, brushing the hair back from his brow. "I'll call you later."

He mumbled something unintelligible, already half there, and with a smile she turned away to find her clothes.

O-O-O

"I'm here, I'm here," Lindsay gasped as she breezed into Mac's office, miraculously only ten minutes late. "Sorry, traffic was a nightmare this morning."

Mac looked up from the file in his hands with a forgiving, half-amused smiled. "You're just in time. Adam's heading out to that drug bust scene in Brooklyn. If you run, you might just catch him in the garage."

She nodded, not wasting her breath to speak as she ran past the elevator to the stairs and took them two at a time. She was just quick enough to flag Adam down, saving her the trouble of braving the traffic herself. Today, she mused, smiling at the memory of waking up cradled in Danny's arms, was turning into a pretty good day.

* * *

_A/N: Short? You betcha. It's a prologue, people. But let me know if you're interested in seeing more, and I'll post the next chapter ASAP. Remember, reviews are pixie stix to my inner child, and my inner child writes most of my material. Which is why I don't do smut, but that's neither here nor there. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N: Just so you know, I kinda love you guys. You're pretty awesome. My inner child actually gave you a standing ovation, and then started writing like a fiend. So this is for everyone who reviewed or favorited. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 1

Lindsay had only heard Adam's second-hand accounts of what went down early that morning—lots of drugs, lots of guns, and two dead thugs, one of whom just happened to have been the head of one of the most notorious organized crime families in the city. He filled her in on the drive over, almost childlike in his anxious enthusiasm.

"Just watch the road," she laughed as he described once again the short field report's description of the bust, gesturing wildly with his hands. "We'll be there soon enough."

The two officers Mac had left to secure the scene weren't outside when they pulled up, which immediately got Lindsay's hackles up. They were supposed to wait outside, keep the perimeter, but they definitely weren't supposed to go inside without a CSI. Those were the rules, the standards set to maintain crime scene integrity, but it was a big, exciting case, and she could just see these two clowns wanting to take a peek inside. Oh, she was going to have someone's head for this.

"Grab the kits," she told Adam, throwing open her door as the car was still braking. "I need to have a word with the unis."

Without waiting for a response she hopped out and loped off towards the entrance. She brushed through the strips of red curtained over the loading door, her heeled boots clip-clopping loudly against the concrete. Good. She wanted them to hear her coming. She wanted them to know they were in big, scary trouble.

Even as she thought it, though, she pulled up short. The yellow crime scene tape lay ripped and abandoned on the ground, and she knew with absolutely certainty that a police officer would _never_ do that.

Pulling her piece slowly and silently from its holster, she swept the immediate area with a glance. No unis. No one else either. Keeping all her weight on the balls of her feet, she stepped further into the room, pointing her gun around corners. But there was nothing to see, not a sound out of place.

"Lindsay, did you happen to bring a—"

Lindsay whipped around, her gun trained on Adam for a split second before she lowered it to the ground. "Adam, there's something not—"

"Lindsay, behind you!"

Instinctively she ducked and spun at the same time. The powerhouse punch aimed at her right temple just barely grazed the top of her scalp, but he was already too close. Her outstretched arms hit his leg, knocking the gun out of her hand.

And then the lights went out.

O-O-O

Danny opened his eyes for the second time that morning with the distinct feeling that he was missing something. Or maybe someone. He also found it very, very strange that he was lying on his pool table when he had a perfectly good bed not twenty feet away.

And then it all came back to him in a rush of Technicolor memory.

_Montana_.

Oh, had he but known what pool and Jack Daniels could lead to, he'd have invited her over for a game a long, long time ago.

He closed his eyes again and replayed the night in his head—the challenging cock of her head, the sound of her uninhibited laughter, the feel of her skin under his hands. Lean and smooth, but rough around the edges. Not as fragile as she looked. When he licked his lips he imagined he could still taste her.

She was at work already, he assumed, half remembering their early-morning conversation. He'd had ideas about making her breakfast—one of his famous omelets—or maybe just taking her shift and letting her sleep.

Another time, perhaps. He was looking forward to a lot of mornings waking up next to Lindsay in the future. They'd get another chance. Today was all about enjoying what he had.

O-O-O

Lindsay came-to facedown on a cold metal floor, and it took her less than a moment to remember what was happening.

_Ripped yellow crime scene tape. _

_Adam yelling. _

_A failed right hook. _

Adam was still screaming.

She pushed up onto her knees and found herself face to face with the two unis she'd only moments ago (or maybe hours?) wanted to bull-whip, handcuffed to the far wall of whatever enclosure they were in.

"Where is it? Where is the product?"

The voice, heavily accented, was interrupted by another loud, hoarse scream, and Lindsay instinctively reached for her holster, remembering at the same moment that her gun had been knocked from her hands. Her cell phone was missing from her pocket.

She was weaponless, Adam was screaming, and the goose egg on the back of her head was starting to throb.

"Just tell me, and I'll stop the pain."

The scream choked out into a breathless whimpering.

"Damn it, this is taking too long," came another voice, though in that same Irish lilt. "Get the woman."

Lindsay immediately pulled her arms out from under herself and shifted her body into approximately the same positioned she'd been in upon waking. She had no weapon, no plan, but unconscious she was more likely to be underestimated.

Footsteps approached and stopped just beside her, and the toe of a heavy boot nudged her side.

"You, woman, get up," came the voice of the first man, the one who had said he'd make the pain stop.

She groaned as though in her sleep but didn't open her eyes.

Without further preamble, she felt a hand on the back of her head and the unmistakable sensation of being jerked up by her hair. Her yelp reverberated around her inside the metal trailer.

"I said, up," he growled in her ear.

"Son of a bitch, get off of me!" she screamed, raking her nails down his wrist until he released her.

But no sooner had she dropped back onto her hands and knees than he kicked out at her, stealing her breath. She thought she might have heard a rib crack.

"Oi! I said bring her here!"

Again she was lifted by her hair, but now that pain was just a dull ache in comparison. Taking full-sized breaths was the more pressing concern.

"I want the codes, and I want to know where the drugs are beings stored," the other man was saying as they rounded the corner.

"Oh, god, Adam," she breathed.

His face was bruised and bloody and streaked with tears. At his feet lay a pile of smashed and burnt-out cigarettes.

All eyes turned to her as she was shoved into the circle, coughing and heaving on her hands and knees.

"Well I'm sure as hell not going to tell you," she gasped, swallowing the bile in her throat. "Bastards."

Several snickers reached her ears, and she looked up at six…eight…possibly a dozen men, all heavily armed and staring down at her with expressions that ranged from disinterest to outright amusement.

"She's got a mouth on her, hasn't she?"

Lindsay chose not to take it as a compliment.

"Tell me what I want to know," ordered a man with long dark hair, whom Lindsay assumed was the leader, "or the next one's on her."

Directly in front of her, Adam's eyes were wide and frightened. Lindsay met them steadily and shook her head. Adam hesitated.

A hand clamped down on the base of her skull and then, just below it, her skin erupted in such sharp, blinding pain that her body curled involuntarily over her knees. Her scream ended only when the pain let up, leaving her throat raw and her chest burning like she'd never get her breath back.

The hand on the base of her skull didn't move.

"No, no, please, just stop! I'll tell you, just stop!"

She would have told Adam to hold out, to keep his silence no matter what it cost her, but she found her bravado failing in the face of that white-hot pain on the back of her neck. So she just kept her head down and listened, hiding involuntary tears as he sold his dignity for her sake.

* * *

_A/N: So…as good as the prologue? As good as you expected? Not so much? Give me a clue and I'll see what I can do about that next chapter. Thanks again for reading!_


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N: Again, you're all amazing, wonderful, beautiful people who have made my inner child happy and prolific. Yay you. Enjoy the fruits of your labor, and please keep up the habit of reviewing; it totally makes my week._

* * *

Chapter 2

They'd thrown Adam and her back inside the truck without so much as a dirty look, and had left them pretty much to their own devices ever since. Lindsay probably would have been grateful for that, had they not burned the hell out of her neck with a cigarette first. As it was, all she could think was that Danny would kill every last one of them if he knew.

And for that matter, so would she if she could get a hold of her gun.

Somewhere in the process of trying to keep her hair away from her neck while not raising her arms high enough to aggravate the bruises on her side, she heard a car start and leave. The voices seemed less multitudinous. So far as she could tell, they may have left only the two she could see.

"We need to get out of here Adam," she whispered, keeping her eyes on the thugs just outside the open end. "We have to get back to the lab. They're going after their drugs."

He just shook his head and cradled his burnt hand to his chest, not meeting her eyes. Part of her felt sad for him in that moment—he wasn't trained in the same way the rest of them were. He was a good scientist and a computer genius, but he wasn't equipped for this kind of violence. This wasn't his world, and having it thrust upon him like this…

Then again, she reminded herself, he hadn't given in to their questioning until they'd hurt _her_, and standing up that way took a whole lot of guts.

"We need a weapon," she persisted, putting a hand on his shoulder until he looked at her. "Where did you leave the kits? There's got to be something in there we can use."

He nodded past the two men. "They're over there, behind those drums. I saw them when they were burning my hand."

"Okay, okay, okay," she breathed, trying to think clearly when her hair kept brushing that burn. "So that means we just have to sneak past two armed gangsters and search through a bunch of basically harmless lab equipment for some sort of improvised weapon, and then sneak back." She sighed, a wry smiled curling her lips. "Great. Piece of cake."

"They'll kill us," Adam whispered, his tone more incredulous than scared.

"They'll kill us anyway. Just not until they get what they want."

"I already gave them what they want," he spat angrily, smacking his head back against the wall. "I told them everything."

"Yeah, and you saved my neck in the process," she replied, pushing anger into her own voice. She didn't know if she had the strength to keep both of them going, but at least she could try to relieve him of the pointless guilt he was feeling. "So congratulations, Adam Ross, you're officially my hero. Do you really think I _ever_ wanted to hear myself say that?"

Despite himself, he cracked a smile. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. So what's the plan?"

She sighed, rolling it around in her head. "We need a distraction; that's first and foremost. Nothing's going to get done with them standing there staring at us."

"Makes sense. Any ideas?"

She did have one, actually. Not so much an idea, but more a possibility. The possibility of an opportunity.

"Adam, I'm going to say something, and I need you to not freak out, okay?"

He looked confused and more than a little wary, but he nodded anyway.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not an idiot," she started, keeping her voice clinical and business-like more for his sake than for her own. "I know what can happen to a woman in a hostage situation, and I'm… I'm really hoping that these guys are too tightly leashed for that…"

"Lindsay…"

"But," she talked over him, her tone firm even in a whisper, "if those men try to take me someplace—someplace out of your line of sight—I don't want you putting up a fight for me, okay? It probably won't save me, and it probably _will_ get you shot. So there's no point. What I want you to do instead is go and find me a weapon so I can kill the sons of bitches when I get back. Do you understand?"

"Not even slightly. What's Plan B?"

"I don't have one yet."

He turned away, his mouth pressed in a tight line.

_Damn these men and their hero complexes._

"Look, if you're not willing, I swear I'll run out there right now and get them to chase me. I'll probably get myself killed in the process, but what the hell, right? Gotta go sometime."

He scoffed but didn't answer.

"Okay," she said reluctantly, putting her hands down as though to push herself up.

"Wait, no, don't go out there," he stammered, his expression pained. "I get it, all right? I'll stay put and use the distraction."

"No matter what you hear or see," she prompted, knowing she might as well be asking for a small piece of his soul.

"No matter what," he agreed, looking somehow even more deflated. "

She wasn't sure if he'd be able to stick to it if and when the time came—no decent man would willingly sit by and watch a woman get hurt, and he'd already proven once today that he was a decent man—but for now she'd have to take him at his word. For both their sakes, she really hoped he wasn't put to the test.

O-O-O

Danny didn't actually move from the pool table until well past ten, too comfortable in spite of the hard surface. Then he did his morning exercises, showered, and dressed, all in a sort of half-awareness. Occasionally he'd pause, hit by a particularly potent memory, and feel this shit-eating grin stretch across his face. Didn't bother him any; there was no one there to see it. He just let the memory ride itself out and then got back to his routine.

It wasn't until he was heading into the kitchen to start breakfast that he saw the note on his chalkboard written in Lindsay's neat cursive.

_Danny-  
__Wish I could stay, but work calls.  
__Enjoy your late start.  
__Lunch at 12?  
__-Lindsay_

_P.S. Rematch anytime, Cowboy_

Danny chuckled to himself, another one of those shit-eating grins spreading across his face until he thought it might stick that way. The clock on the stove read just after eleven, too late for breakfast anyway.

He'd stop at that deli she liked and pick up sandwiches on the way to the lab. They hadn't talked about if they were or were not going public with their relationship yet, but if anyone asked he could always say he'd lost a bet.

Technically he had.

And man, was he looking forward to that rematch.

* * *

_A/N: Same deal, guys: Good? Better? Worse? Depressingly disappointing? If you don't tell me, I won't know, and that makes my inner child sad and motivationally void. Not that I'm begging or anything… __Thanks for reading!_


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

They sat, and they waited. They didn't speak more than they had to, afraid of retaliation, and the handcuffed unis didn't try to make conversation. For a while Lindsay tried to listen to what their captors were talking about, but they always talked in hushed tones that didn't carry far enough.

So they just sat. And they prayed. And they waited for something to happen.

O-O-O

To-go bag in hand, Danny jogged the two blocks to the lab only to find the entire building milling around out on the sidewalk, and the first stranger he asked told him that they'd all been evacuated because of a gas leak.

Well that would make finding his lunch date slightly more difficult.

His cell showed no service, which he reasoned was probably why she hadn't called to let him know about the evac. Still, that meant he was left to circle the building aimlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of her wavy brown hair among the crowds.

He made it twice around the block before he spotted Peyton. She seemed to be doing the same thing he was: searching faces. Her gaze swept right over him without recognition, too anxious to find a specific person to be distracted by a familiar one.

He stopped her with a hand on her elbow. "Hey, Peyton, you seen Lindsay around here?"

"She's processing a crime scene in Brooklyn with Adam," she replied distractedly. "Have you seen Mac? I was with him just before the evacuation; we should have run into each other by now."

Danny shook his head, his lunch plans flying out the window. He'd heard on the radio that morning about the Wilder drug bust, and if that was the scene Montana was on, who knew when she'd be free. "You know what? I'm sure he's fine. He's probably just looking for you and you keep missing each other."

She nodded but her expression didn't lighten.

"How about I go this way, you go that way, and we'll meet on the other side? One of us is bound to see him."

"Yes, that would be great." She smiled and squeezed his shoulder in an unspoken sign of gratitude before heading off in the opposite direction.

Wiping a hand down his face, he turned to the next person to pass him. "Hey, you like turkey on wheat? There you go. Merry Christmas."

O-O-O

"Jackie-boy, it's show time."

Lindsay caught only those four words over the walkie-talkie, and they were more than enough to make her very, very nervous. When one of the men nodded in her direction to his partner, she stopped breathing.

"Something's about to happen," she whispered, her voice faltering as the men stepped up into the truck. "Just remember what I you promised."

"Oh god."

The man who approached had his AK-47 pointed straight at her, and from his voice she could tell he was the same man who'd kicked her while she was down. "Oi, woman, on your feet."

She took a slow, silent breath and pushed gingerly to her feet, standing as tall and straight as she could. "What?"

"Walk," he ordered, gesturing with the butt of his gun.

With small, deliberate steps she started towards the opening of the truck bed, but before she got ten feet she felt a hand clamp down on the back of her neck.

Right on top of that damned cigarette burn.

So she swung and she clawed, and when he grabbed her around the middle she kicked out with everything she had. It wasn't about winning—she knew she wasn't going to _win_ a fight against two armed men in the condition she was in—but she refused to show weakness in front of these gutless bastards.

"Oi, get her legs! The bitch has gone feral."

The second man moved in front of her, and her foot caught his left temple with a satisfying _thunk_. He went down on one knee, momentarily stunned, and Lindsay watched with longing as his gun clattered to the ground.

"For fuck's sake, just shoot her!"

Lindsay went boneless at the words, letting the man holding her feel her absolute acquiescence. Fighting for her life and dignity was one thing, but she wasn't stupid enough to call their bluff when it came to bullets.

"Oh, so now you want to play nice," he bit out, dragging her towards the edge again.

Out of nowhere her cheek exploded, snapping her head around and sending bouncing, bursting lights across the black behind her eyelids. When she looked back, thug number two was rubbing his knuckles with a look of satisfaction. She spit blood on his shoes.

And then she fell—was pushed—over the back edge of the truck onto the cold, hard concrete floor, pain slicing through her right forearm as she landed in an awkward heap. But the pain was good, bracing. It shocked her system into movement, and with a rush of adrenaline she pushed to her feet and sprinted around the side of the truck.

They caught up to her, as she knew they would, but it was a good distance from the kits and that was all she needed. That, and the fact that they were having too much fun smacking her around to pay much attention to anything else.

Lindsay really hoped that Adam was taking that opportunity.

"Listen up, darling," one of the men said finally, kicking apathetically at her side when her eyes started to glass over. "You're going to make a phone call."

O-O-O

Flack was sitting at his desk when he got the call, filling out the ream or so of paperwork fallout from the morning's bust. With two dead dirtbags—one at his very own hands—and more product than had ever been confiscated in one operation, he understood the need for paperwork. He knew why things had to be documented and double-checked and then checked again, especially since Truby went down.

Didn't mean he had to like it any.

So it was a relief when his phone rang, all the way up until he heard the voice on the other line.

"Don," it said in a harsh, throaty whisper. "It's Lindsay. Don, we've got a problem."

"Hey Linds, are you all right? You don't sound too good."

"There's two of them," she said quickly, and then he heard the weak, painful scream.

Suddenly, his day looked so much more complicated.

"Lindsay, tell me what's going on. Talk to me, Monroe!"

Her voice when she came back was thinner, higher. "At the warehouse. Me and Adam and two unis. They're armed, and they want their…" She hissed, and her heavy wheezes came across as white noise. "Don, you've got to come. You've got to come."

And then the phone disconnected.

For two pregnant moments he stared down at the silent phone in his hands and then up at the busyness around him. Cops drinking their coffee and cracking jokes, taking statements and filling out those same reams of paperwork he had been doing just three minutes ago.

Two moments was all he gave himself before the training kicked in, overriding the panic. This was the job.

"Chief, I need a tac team, and I need it A-SAP. We've got a hostage situation in Brooklyn."


	5. Chapter 4

_A/N: Okay, you guys have seriously done the impossible—you've gotten me through most of what's going to be a 53-hour work week with my sense of humor intact. Big bravo to you for that. Now I'm on the home stretch, only 13 more hours to go, so I'll need lots of loving to get me through Friday and Saturday. Show me some. And as always, enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 4

Danny was at the front of the building talking with Peyton and Sid when the word _hostage_ started to pop up in half-audible conversations around him. His first thought was the surviving victim in the Dobson case. Mac's narrow escape was still headline news in a lot of people's minds, though Danny himself wished the whole issue would get going on the slow fade into public disinterest.

But then he started to hear words like _bust_ and _drugs_ and _Brooklyn_ in those same conversations, and the bad feeling in his stomach kicked itself up a couple notches. When he heard the name _Wilder_, he reached out and grabbed the guy who said it without any concern for civility.

"Wait, what'd you say about hostages?" he demanded, ignoring the man's sputtered protests.

Peyton put a restraining hand on his shoulder, eyes wide with alarm. "Danny, what are you doing?"

He ignored her. "Start talking, pal."

"Someone said they heard it on the police ban," the guy replied with what looked more like confusion than alarm or anger. "Some kind of hostage situation at that warehouse where the cops found all that coke this morning. I caught that news conference on in…"

"The hostages?" Danny prompted, shaking him back into focus.

"Don't know, man. I didn't hear the details."

Danny released his collar and turned away, already losing interest in the man. He wasn't important. He didn't mean a thing.

"I have to go," he said distractedly, more to the general area than to Peyton or Sid, but they seemed to understand. "I, uh… I'll catch you guys later."

O-O-O

Back inside the back of the semi-trailer, Lindsay didn't move from the place where they'd dropped her. She didn't dare; it hurt too much. Something told her that shock was starting to creep up on her, but she tamped it down the best she could. If she went catatonic, something told her none of them were getting out of there alive.

Adam was talking to her, asking her if she was okay, but she didn't answer, choosing instead to concentrate on her breathing. In through the nose… out through the mouth… One breath. Two. A dozen, maybe, slow and steady.

She thought about Danny and the slow, heavy way he breathed when he was asleep, and how when she'd been listening to it the night before, she'd had the stupid, girlish thought that he was still trying to breathe in her scent.

She hoped Flack wouldn't call him. Don sort of knew about them, in the same way they all sort of knew. Sid had made that comment about Danny having a crush on her. Hawkes had smiled in that knowing way when she'd asked him to make sure Danny found her goodbye card. They were all highly intelligent, highly observant people, which made for very short-lived secrets. So Flack would know just how badly Danny would react if he found out.

For just a moment the scenario played itself out in her head: Danny standing outside, yelling and swearing and demanding to know what was being done. She could see him pushing to get into the building, wanting to rescue her because he definitely had that hero complex thing she'd been cursing about however long ago. He'd want to trade places, and even with all the pain she was in, she hoped one side or the other would refuse. She was a lost cause already; there wasn't much more they could do to her.

"Lindsay," Adam's voice, annoying in its persistence, pulled her out of the doze she'd fallen into. "Come on, Linds, open your eyes. If you don't wake up, I—I'll never forgive myself. Plus you know, I'm not the action hero here so if those guys come back in here, I don't know how I'm—"

"Adam?" she sighed, turning slowly onto her side, careful to keep her right arm cradled against her chest. She tested her fingers on that hand, tried to curl and uncurl them, and then hissed when pain shot all the way up through her shoulder. "Please shut up."

He nodded vigorously. "Okay, yeah, sure. I can do that."

She grimaced, trying to pull herself up. "Much appreciated, thanks."

He waited while she maneuvered herself against the wall next to him and, using her one good arm, pushed herself into a sitting position. It helped—took the pressure off her chest and made it just a little easier to breathe. Upright, she could see a little more clearly through the pain in her head.

"Did you do what I asked?"

He nodded and, watching to make sure their captors weren't looking, pulled his hands out of his pockets. In one he held a small bottle of clear liquid, and in the other were a long, sharp pair of tweezers, two pens and—she smiled her approval—her buck knife. Slim pickings, indeed—she'd have preferred the weight of a gun in her hand—but it was more than they'd had an hour ago.

She nodded toward the bottle and he passed to her. The Marquis reagent from the test kit. "Good call," she smiled tiredly, slipping it under the jacket she'd discarded hours ago. That could hurt the bastards pretty good.

He passed her the knife, too, and she slipped it into her pocket. The fact that he kept the pens and tweezers for himself was comforting. It meant he'd gotten some of the fight back in him.

"Are you okay?" he asked warily, his voice akin to that of someone sitting by a deathbed.

She chuckled thinly, wondering what _okay_ really meant at this point. "Yeah, Adam. They just wanted me to call Flack. They're using us as a diversion."

"So, did you? Are they coming?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty…"

The sound of sirens answered better than she could, and her head rested back against the wall in relief and exhaustion. She wasn't sure what exactly she was relieved about—this was, after all, part of their captors' plans—but just knowing that someone knew they were in trouble and were waiting on the other side of the warehouse walls was something of a comfort.

O-O-O

Danny hitched a ride to Brooklyn in a radio car, grateful for the sirens that cleared traffic at every turn. The uniform in the driver's seat filled him in on what scant details anyone seemed to have at this point.

A female detective had called Flack directly and described four NYPD hostages and two armed HTs. So far, no word on hostage conditions and no current list of demands. No second contact.

_Montana_.

He was trying really hard to hold out for the best. She'd made the call, so she was still alive. Everything after that was conjecture. But in his mind he kept seeing her how she'd been that morning, lying in his arms, and how her nose has scrunched up when he'd poked it. How she'd stretched and smiled and sighed as she woke.

In his weakness, he kept wondering if that was the last memory he'd ever have of her.

"Don!" he called, jumping out of the car while it was still rolling. "What's going on? Have you talked to them? Have they said anything about the hostages?"

Flack took one look at Danny and his expression changed to one of impatient disbelief. "Danny, I know you want to be here, but maybe—"

"Don…"

"I know you're temper, Messer, and the first words out of those dirtbags' mouths, you're gonna be gunning to get in there and knock heads. That kind of recklessness in a hostage negotiation is going get someone killed, so just go—"

"_Fuck that_," Danny growled, enunciating each word. "I'm notleaving, Don, you know I'm not. Not until she's out of there." Flack looked ready to keep arguing, and he threw up his hands to stave it off. "Look, I'll follow your lead, alright? You say keep my head down and my mouth shut and, this one day only, I'll do it. No questions asked. But _do not_ tell me to leave here without her."

He wondered fleetingly if he looked as desperate as he thought he did, but in the end it didn't matter as long as it worked.

Flack sighed, looking away from his unwavering glare. "Fine, but you keep your yap shut while we're talking to the hostage takers. We're just about to initiate communication."

"You talked to Lindsay, though, right? She's the one who called?" Flack nodded but didn't elaborate. "Well, how did she sound?"

Flack hesitated, his mouth thinning into a firm line, and Danny felt his insides turn cold.

"It wasn't good, Danny. I heard…" He shook his head as though trying to wipe the memory. "I heard her scream."

And there was the punch to the gut he'd been expecting, dreading, praying against. He leaned against the makeshift command post they'd set up, keeping himself on his feet by sheer force of will.

"But you don't think… I mean, you think she's still alive in there, right? They aren't going to shoot their hostages before they even make their demands."

"Thermal imagining shows six warm bodies," Flack replied with equal parts confidence and consolation. "We'll get her out, Messer."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he nodded, pulling himself together. He had to keep going, keep focused, keep thinking positive. It was the least she deserved. "Okay, let's get this done."


	6. Chapter 5

_A/N: Merry Christmas! And here is a present to all of my faithful readers and reviewers, a brand-spanking-new chapter. Not exactly Christmassy, but I think it'll do the job well enough. If you're really looking for Christmassy, go read _Something Christmassy_ by rhymenocerous. Absolutely brilliant. I had to go watch the movies after I read it. Long live the tomboy's Christmas movie. _

_For those of you who tell me you almost never review but you're reviewing for this, thank you! I thrive on the encouragement and input of my readers, so I really do appreciate the effort. I know a brilliant writer might be able to write for himself and no one else, but I never claimed to be brilliant, did I? _

_For those who ask about my other fics and fandoms, I've updated my profile with that sort of information. Please check there and PM me with any additional questions. _

_For those who have reviewed every or almost every chapter, this is especially for you. _

_And for everyone else, thanks again so much for all your wonderful reviews, and I hope you enjoy! _

* * *

Chapter 5

Danny watched silently, arms crossed vice-like across his chest, as the vaguely human-shaped orange blob on the thermal imaging screen bent down to take the walkie-talkie. He wanted to be in there, doing something. He wanted to see her face instead of trying to discern which orange blob belonged to her. And he really wanted to kill whoever had made her scream.

But he was really glad that he wasn't on this end of that walkie-talkie because, with the state he was in, he'd have blown everything right to shit in the first ten seconds.

"_Nice toy,"_ were the first words spoken, heavy on the Irish accent, and he already wanted to shoot something.

Don was cooler, though—steady, the way he had to be. "Why don't you come outside? I'll show you how to use it."

"_Oh, you're funny. I like funny people. Unfortunately the lot in here… they're just not cutting it. I mean, sure, the woman's got some spirit in her, but I think we've found a remedy to that."_

Danny closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, counting to ten inside his head. It didn't mean anything, he told himself. They were just trying to confuse the focus.

"Oh, yeah? And what's that?"

The son of a bitch actually chuckled. "_I'll bet you'd like to know. What, is she yours?"_

_Focus, focus, focus._

"Haven't had the pleasure," Flack replied flatly. "So why don't we swap, me for the hostages? I'm the one who put you out of business, after all."

"_Oh, I'll think about it."_

"While you're doing that, why don't you tell me what you want? Give me something to think about?"

"_Well then, let's start with my guys, the men you arrested this morning. I want them released."_

"I'll look into that for you, but it's going to take some time. Is there anything you need in the meantime? Food, water, medical supplies?"

They heard that same, grating chuckle. "Call me when my men are free."

And then Danny watched as the vague orange blob put the walkie down and walked away.

"We've got to get her out of there, Don," he said, pacing a tight line along the command post. "I mean, we've got to get them all out, but Lindsay…"

"I know, Danny."

"They're not giving them water, food…not even a med kit. I mean, you said she sounded bad, right? Like she might need medical attention? What if—"

"I _know_, Danny."

Danny ran a shaking hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know. I know you know. I'm just…"

He trailed off, not sure what he was just then. Worried? Oh yeah. Pissed off? Absolutely. But that didn't help Lindsay any, and neither would badgering Flack. "Right, so what happens now?"

"Now, I call my captain and pass on the HT's demands. He'll pass it on to someone else, who'll pass it on again… and then somewhere in there, if we're very unlucky, all those sons of bitches we arrested this morning will get put back on the street."

Danny shook his head with a dry, humorless laugh. "Yeah, yeah, and all that time, Lindsay and Adam and those two officers are sitting in there, in God-knows what condition."

Flack put a hand on his shoulder, stilling his listless pacing. "Danny, if you can't handle the wait…"

Danny raised his eyebrows in wordless challenge. Flack put his hands up in surrender.

"Hey, I was just asking."

O-O-O

One thing about sitting in the trailer of a semi, besides the stiffness and the lingering smell of gunpowder from its last load, was that sounds were tricky. You could hear some through the walls, but mostly sounds came echoing through the open end, so it was harder to hear distinctly and everything seemed to come from the same direction.

So Lindsay hadn't heard the whole conversation between Flack and Fighting Irish, but she'd gotten bits and pieces. She'd heard enough of the negotiator's voice to know that it was Flack on the other end of that walkie, and she'd heard enough of her captor's side of the conversation to know that he was asking for his men back.

_Smart_, she thought bitterly. Even if those men weren't released, it would stall negotiations and require interdepartmental collaboration. Distraction up the wahzoo.

She'd cringed when he'd mentioned her, and not just because she seemed to be standing out in his mind. It was what he'd said about her and the way he'd said it:

_I mean, the woman's got some spirit in her, but I think we've found a remedy to that._

It had been said with a definite purpose: to create concern, fear, anger. He'd made it a vague implication of something beyond pure violence, using the fact that they were men and she was a woman to his strategic advantage.

And she'd bet the farm it had worked just that way, damn it. She hated being used.

Oh, God, she hoped Danny hadn't heard it.

Half-heartedly, she wondered what time it was, how long they'd been there. She was supposed to have met Danny for lunch at noon, but it had to be later than that. They'd gotten to the scene by nine-thirty, and it felt like days that they'd been there. She'd been unconscious or half-conscious some of it. With no view of the windows, she couldn't even make a guess with any reasonable accuracy.

It was hard to imagine the day had started off so well.

"What are you smiling about?"

She looked up at Adam's bemused expression and shrugged, offering a watery chuckle. "Yesterday was a really good day," she said by way of explanation, and Adam smiled back, seeming to understand.

"We are going to get out of this, Linds," he said, patting her shoulder with his uninjured hand, "and then you can have a really good day tomorrow."

This, inexplicably, made her laugh all the more… and then groan when laughing was too painful. What kind of tomorrow was there to hope for, she wondered, when time was absolutely meaningless? For all she knew, it was already tomorrow.

God, that was depressing.

"I think I might lose it soon," she said conversationally, her eyes closing from sheer exhaustion. "Just so you're prepared when it happens. There's really only so much abuse a body can take at one time before it shuts down."

"Come on, don't talk like that. You're going to be fine."

There was an edge of panic in his voice that she understood all too well: He didn't trust himself to make sure they stayed alive. So far she'd been the one making the big decisions and taking the big risks, and he was still counting on her to keep the cool head because, if she lost it, he didn't trust himself to keep one himself.

"If I'm not," she pressed, opening her eyes again so she could look him squarely in the face, "that bottle of Marquis is under my jacket here. Throw it with one hand; shield your eyes with the other. Get the bastard's gun if you can, and shoot to kill."

"I don't—I don't think I could do that, Lindsey."

"You can," she insisted. "You will. Adam, those men beat the living hell out of me without an ounce of restraint or remorse. Do you really think they're going to just let us go?"

Adam stared at her for a long moment, apparently unable to come up with a sufficient answer, and she let her eyes close again. That he couldn't answer—that her conclusions had shocked him into silence—didn't bother her in the slightest. No one was ever really prepared for this type of life-threatening, life-changing situation. No good and honest human being was altogether mentally equipped to take a life, even to save his own. She'd never done it before, herself, and the idea that she might have to before the day was through was just one more thing that was making her stomach churn.

But at least she had him thinking about it.

* * *

_A/N: So… Good? Bad? Unbearable? I do so love writing Danny's concern and Lindsay's pain, but I think we're probably getting close to the climax here, which will shortly thereafter lead to an end. If you want to see it, you know what do to. O:)_


	7. Chapter 6

_A/N: Happy New Year! My resolutions this year: To read more, write more, have more fun, and finish a fanfiction or two. Oh, and to be evermore grateful to all the wonderful people who make me happy, and that includes my lovely reviewers. So here's the next chapter, hope you enjoy. _

* * *

Chapter 6

Lindsay wasn't surprised when the Irishmen forced the unis into those gray jumpsuits and then took off their own to reveal clean, blue NYPD uniforms. These men had been prepared, methodical, and two steps ahead all damn day, so this was just icing on the cake. Lindsay found herself both grudgingly impressed and horrified. If the luck was with them, the bastards might actually get away with it.

Flack and his men would figure it out after the fact, what with the "guards" being gagged and duct taped to unloaded weapons, but there would be a moment of confusion before it all came out, and the criminals would slip out with the rest of the uniforms, no questions asked…

…as long as Adam and Lindsay didn't give them away.

That was the part Lindsay understood most clearly. If she and Adam were alive and ungagged, it would take only a word from them to point out their real captors, and these two were smart enough to know that. Or at least the man pulling the strings was. So that left two options before the end of this:

They'd be gagged, or they'd be dead.

She was getting really tired of anticipating her own death.

"Cop, you there?"

The unnervingly familiar accent pulled her eyes open, her head lifting from Adam's shoulder where she might have been dozing. If she got out of here, she hoped never again in her life to hear an Irish accent.

Flack's voice was just discernable. _"Yeah, I'm right here."_

"You release me boys?"

Flack hesitated, and she held her breath. Rule one in negotiations: Never say _no_ to the HT. _"I spoke to my supervisors. They're going to see what they can do."_

"That's not good enough, Serpico."

She didn't hear all of what Flack said next, but it sounded like he was asking to talk to one of them. Proof of life. Oh, how she yearned to talk to him, to anyone on their side. Just a friendly voice.

Was Danny there yet?

"You want to hear something?" Fighting Irish demanded, his voice smooth and controlled…and then it exploded into unreserved rage. "How about the sound of your bitch cop taking her last breath—would that grease the wheels?"

She met Adam's eyes for less than a moment and saw the same panicked comprehension there. This was it, no more stalling. Whatever they were going to do, it had to be now. She slid the folding knife out of her pocket and into her palm, blade side out and ready to be sprung.

The man's heavy footfalls were punctuated by Flack's desperate protest over the walkie. He rounded the corner, his face contorted, murder in his eyes.

Everything was coming too quickly.

"Get up!" he shouted, and she really did try to do what he said. Not fast enough. He grabbed her injured arm and hauled her to her feet. "I said, get up!"

Suddenly, through the excruciating pain in her arm and the lethargy of the her battered body, everything became sharp and clear. She looked into his eyes—his cold, dark, unmasked eyes—and saw nothing. She saw nothing.

And then she swung her left arm around and buried her buck knife hilt-deep into the side of his neck.

On the withdraw, she saw his expression turn stunned and scared, his hands grasping futilely at the wound as his body began to fail him. He reached out a bloody hand to her, perhaps in anger or perhaps in supplication, and she couldn't think to move. It closed around the front of her shirt, pulling her to him in his last, choking moments. The coppery smell of blood surrounded her, permeating her clothes and skin, right down into her bones.

As he fell into her, knocking her to the ground, she saw Adam move, heard voices shouting and a smattering of gunshots, but she didn't have the strength to fight anymore. It took all she had just to roll the dead man off her own body and keep herself conscious. She could no longer see Adam, couldn't see if he'd been shot or was dead or if he needed her help. She had nothing left to give.

Then, out of the cacophony, she heard a new voice.

"Lindsay? Lindsay?"

It had the same tone as it had when she'd set off the flash-bang grenade in the Holly case almost a year ago—that concern with an edge of anger that said without words, "If you don't answer me right this second, I swear I'll tear the whole damn place apart looking for you." It was protective and a hair possessive, and she remembered going into his arms that day and leaning her head against his chest. She wanted to feel the comfort and relief he had given her all those months ago. She wanted to feel safe.

"Danny," she croaked, dragging herself to her knees so she could crawl towards the open end of the trailer. "I'm over here, Danny."

When he came around the corner, gun drawn and ready, she felt the weight of the day lift just slightly from her shoulders.

He, on the other hand, didn't look at all relieved to see her. His eyes widened in shock, expression terrified as he holstered his piece. "Shit, Linds, where's…" He touched her head, shoulder, sides, looking frantic. "Where's it coming from?"

"What?"

"The blood, where's it coming from? Where are you hurt, Linds? Tell me where."

She looked down at herself and realized that almost her entire shirt was wet and clinging, the material darker than it should have been. "It's not mine," she whispered, touching the side of his face and noticing for the first time that her hand, too, was covered. It left a streak of red along his jaw line. "Danny, it's not mine. It's not mine."

He looked over her shoulder in the direction of the man she'd stabbed and let out a shaking, haggard breath. "Okay, okay." He took another couple deep breaths and cradled her face in his hands. "But we need to get you checked out. Come here."

She let him gather her in his arms and carry her bridle-style across to the ambulance.

"Lindsay?" she heard Flack call as they passed.

"I'm okay, Don," she sighed, cringing as Danny's tight hold jarred her ribs.

"Not fucking likely," Danny breathed in her ear as he set her down on a stretcher, and she found the statement inexplicably comforting. She gave him a wan smile and touched his cheek again, leaving red fingerprints. He didn't seem to notice.

"Detective," the EMT addressed her, and she tried to focus, "I need to you tell me about any injuries you sustained, or if anything hurts or feels strange."

So as he checked her pupils and took her blood pressure, she listed off the things that had happened to her, her gaze fixed on Danny. She told him about getting knocked out and falling off the back of the truck, about getting hit and kicked and jerked around. When she mentioned the cigarette burn, which felt already like such a distant injury, he hissed and closed his eyes as though trying to marshal himself. Then with gentle, shaking fingers he gathered her hair and held it away from her neck so the EMT could apply a bandage.

"Okay, let's get you to the hospital for some X-rays," the EMT said as he braced her arm in a temporary splint. "I don't hear any significant damage to the heart or lungs, but they're going to want to run some tests, make sure everything's one hundred percent. Detective Messer…?"

"I'm coming," Danny answered before the question even passed his lips. "Don, I'm going with Montana. The lab's been evacuated—some kind of gas leak—but the phones might be up by now. You can—"

Lindsay shot up on the stretcher, suddenly remembering. "The lab! Oh, God, Danny…"

"Hey, shh, don't worry about it," he soothed, trying to push her back down. "It's nothing—"

"No, Danny, it's them!" she cried. "Don, we were the diversion. You have to get back to the lab!"

Flack looked hesitant for a moment, as though he thought maybe she was suffering from the stress or something, and then seemed to make up his mind. "We gotta get back to the crime lab! Let's move, people, move!"

Lindsay sighed and let Danny push her back onto the stretcher, too exhausted to even attempt anything else. It felt like the longest day of her life and yet the sun was still up. She could see it now through the windows. For someone else, someone on the other end of the city who knew nothing of this place, it was probably a beautiful day.

She felt a hand on her cheek and looked up into Danny's clear blue eyes, a tight, half-hearted smile tugging at the corners of his lips. She smiled back.

Maybe there was still some beauty here, too.

* * *

_A/N: Oh, I know! You were all looking for some delicious, alpha-male retribution from Danny. Sorry. In keeping in line with canon and with the fact that Lindsay is, herself, incredibly kick-ass, I thought it was only right that she be allowed her own payback. _

_Okay, so I could just leave it here at the episode's natural ending… or I could follow some excellent advice from webdlfan and write some extension chapters. Personally, I'm inclined to see where this could go, but you guys have to tell me you want it. _

_In the meantime, _Primeval_ just started up again (with the absolutely scrumptious Andrew-Lee Potts) and I'm planning to rewatch the premiere again and again until I'm just sick of it. Thanks for reading! O:)_


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: Alright, I guess your wish is my command. Due to overwhelming demand, _Better Yesterdays_ will continue at least a little ways into recovery. Don't get me wrong: I'm not talking about making this a 30-chapter fic. You can, however, count on at least three or four more chapters after this one. My road map is out the window on this, so I suppose we'll just have to wait and see where the ride takes us. _

_Once again, a HUGE thanks to everyone who reads and reviews my humble little stories here, and an extra thanks to those who review chapter after chapter. You make me smile after a long, long week. _

* * *

Chapter 7

Danny Messer was no stranger to dangerous situations, and he knew Lindsay wasn't either. She'd chased down criminals and been in a few fire fights. She'd gone undercover in the Holly case and had a gun shoved in her face, which he mostly tried not to think about. She'd almost been blown up in that serial bomber case last year. Flack had just made it out of that, and she could just as easily have been in the building when it happened, which he also didn't like to think about.

With the job they had, he was used to the what-ifs when it came to Lindsay. What if she'd been in the building? What if she'd been two seconds later with the flash-bang grenade? What if she hadn't gotten up to wash her hands ten years ago? He'd have never met her, never even known there'd once been a girl named Lindsay Monroe out there, for whom he could have cared so deeply.

So now, sitting outside her hospital room, it was just the same. What if Adam hadn't gotten her that knife. What if she'd gone to the scene alone?

What if he'd gone instead of her?

The doctors had gotten her cleaned up a bit and done a CT scan of her head, chest, and abdomen to rule out internal bleeding and organ failure, make sure she wasn't in any immediate danger. So far so good. They'd waited to do X-rays until after the forensic nurse took a look at her.

Adam had been by earlier, looking moderately worse for wear. EMS had checked him out and applied antibiotic ointment to the third-degree burns on his hand, but otherwise it was all superficial. Bumps and bruises, mostly. He'd looked ashamed for that, not at all relieved to be lesser of the two injured parties.

He'd wanted to stay, but Danny had told him to go home and rest. It had been a long day for all of them, and the fallout tomorrow would likely be substantial. Really, it was an excuse. Danny wanted some time to himself, and Adam's inability to keep a lid on it wasn't helping.

But as he'd left, Danny had put a hand on his shoulder and said with as much sincerity as he felt, "Thank you for, you know, being there with her. You saved both your lives there at the end, grabbing that gun. Taking out the second guy. You did good."

Adam had smiled, looking equal parts proud and embarrassed, and left without another word.

Alone now, all Danny had been able to think about were those damn what-ifs. What if she'd been ten minutes later for work that morning? What if the new Wilder boss had left two different guys—guys with less focus, less self-control?

What if she wasn't really okay in there?

He'd been thinking it ever since he'd heard those words, the ones he knew he'd never be able to get out of his head:

"_How about the sound of your bitch cop taking her last breath—would that grease the wheels?"_

Two of Flack's men had had to hold him back as he'd kicked and screamed to get into that building before the man could lay a hand on her, watching with growing panic as the thermal orange blob chucked the walkie and started towards the back of the building. Flack had insisted they wait. The HT could have been bluffing; all he had were those hostages.

And then they'd heard the gunfire, and then nobody tried to hold him back anymore. He'd run in just ahead of Flack, gun drawn, ready and willing to mow down anyone who stood between him and her. In fact, if it hadn't been for Adam's timely intervention he might have killed those two uniforms himself without a second thought.

When he'd first seen her in the back of that truck, he'd seriously thought he had lost her. The blood on her face, her neck, her clothes—the way she'd crawled to the edge with one arm curled against her chest, breathing shallow—he'd have sworn she was a goner, and that he'd been too late to save her.

And then the sight of the Irish son of a bitch lying behind her in a pool of his own blood and Lindsay's knife lying next to him, covered in it. That kind of thing stuck in your head, ate at your heart. What she'd gone through, what she'd have to carry with her…

He was pretty sure she'd never killed anyone before.

"Danny?"

He looked up at Stella, framed in the doorway looking like she'd had the same kind of day he had. "Hey, Stella."

Stella looked at him and then at the observation window with its blinds that had been closed for a good half-hour. "Hey, I just got out of the lab. What's going on? How's she doing?"

He shrugged, shaking his head sadly. "I don't know, Stell, she's pretty banged up. CT scans are clear, though—just a mild concussion, no internal bleeding. X-rays and blood work are next. Right now they're doing a rape kit—"

"What?" she interrupted, looking the same kind of sick that he felt. "Was she…I mean, did she say…?"

He shook his head again. "Nah, nah, she said no, and Adam's story lines up pretty well with that. But she did get knocked out a couple times, not always around Adam, you know? So they have to do the kit, just to be sure."

She nodded in understanding. It had been the same for her, he remembered, when Frankie had made her a prisoner in her own apartment. He was sure, looking at her now, that some of the anger on her face, in her stance, was for that day. She knew what it felt like to be helpless, to be hurt, and to be unsure of what had or hadn't happened in the missing time. "Right, so, other than that?"

He sighed, wiping a hand down his face. The last thing he wanted was to think about it again, all the thing she'd been though. As it was he was keeping himself together with leftover adrenaline and the knowledge that the immediate threat was over. It was done. He just had to keep reminding himself of that.

"Her wrist looked busted up pretty good She's got cuts and bruises, maybe some broken ribs. The bastards, they…" he grimaced, "they put out a cigarette on her neck."

Stella paced to the window again, looking murderous, and then sighed. "Well anyway, from what I hear they got theirs."

"They got off lucky, you ask me."

Stella looked back at him, the corner of her lip twitching, fighting a smile. "You really do like her, don't you?"

Trust Stella to always see right through him.

He shrugged casually. "Yeah, sure I like her. Course I do. What's not to like?"

Stella's almost-smile grew into a real one, but before she could say anything, the door to Lindsay's room opened and a woman in scrubs stepped out.

"Detective Messer?"

Danny shot to his feet, he and Stella closing in on the nurse at once. "Yeah, Val, this is Detective Bonasera, our boss at the crime lab; you can speak freely in front of her. Stella, this is Val, the forensic nurse. So… what's the verdict?"

"There is evidence of recent sexual activity—probably within the last 24 hours—but there's no indication of force," she explained, and Danny ignored the intrigued glance he felt Stella send his way. "No vaginal tearing, bruising, etc.; no fluids on her clothes other than blood. In my professional opinion, she wasn't sexually assaulted."

Danny let out the breath he'd been holding, nodding to himself as the relief washed over him. Recent sexual activity—no surprise there—but no rape. That was one thing to check off his current list of things to keep him up at night. "Alright, alright, that's good news. Anything else?"

"Her clothes are all bagged for the lab. I took all the blood samples I could from her person, but the sheer amount of it made distinguishing individual patterns difficult. I took samples from under her fingernails, though, and documented and photographed all bruises and abrasions. Otherwise, another nurse should be by shortly to draw blood and take her for X-rays."

"Alright, thank you Val. Can we, uh… can we go in and see her now?"

She smiled the same way Stella had, like she knew some kind of secret. "Yes, detective. She's been asking for you."

"Great. Stella?"

Stella hesitated. "Actually, I've got to make a phone call. You go ahead. I'll be in in a minute. "

Danny had the feeling she was making an excuse so he could have a moment alone with Lindsay, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her. The habitually ignored rational part of him was whispering, _Take the gift, idiot, and shut up about the rest_, and for once he and his rational side were in total agreement. So he just nodded and took a deep, steadying breath before slipping inside the exam room.


	9. Chapter 8

_A/N: Sorry for the wait. Now that the action is over, the characters haven't been quite as cooperative. I think they enjoy the drama. I mean, really, what other explanation is there for Rikki Sandoval, right?_

_Anyway, enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 8

He hadn't seen her since they'd cleaned her up, so he hadn't been able to tell before what she actually looked like under all that blood and sweat and dirt. Now, with her face wiped clean and her bare arms poking out from the sleeves of her hospital gown, he could see with vivid clarity the extent of the violence against her.

He thought he might be sick.

The left side of her face was swollen, a bruise webbing out from a cut along her cheek bone that had been closed with two butterfly clamps. Her lip was split at one corner, the skin around it red and raw. A bandage was fitted over her right temple and, just peaking out from the untamed cloud that was her hair, he saw another wrapped around the back of her neck over that cigarette burn. The worst of it, though, he assumed was under the gown. Every small movement was met with a wince, every breath taken with utmost care.

Her arm was still encased in the temporary splint the EMT had put on her, just waiting on X-rays before a plaster cast was applied, and as he entered she was busy examining what looked like a hand-shaped bruise halfway up the forearm.

"Hey," she smiled tiredly as he closed the door behind him.

"Hey babe. How you feeling?" he replied, trying hard to sound light, unaffected. From the look she gave him, he wasn't fooling anybody.

"Wow, do I really look that bad? They won't give me a mirror."

He sat down next to her with a forced smile. "Nah, you're beautiful. You just…" He sighed, shaking his head as words failed him. "This shouldn't have happened to you, that's all. I hate that this happened to you."

She reached out a hand, wincing with the effort, and he took it in both of his. "I'm gonna be okay," she told him, and he chuckled at the idea that she was trying to comfort him. "They're going to take their X-rays and wrap up my wrist and my ribs, and then they're going to send me home with orders to rest up for a few days. No permanent damage."

"Oh no, they're not. You're staying here at least one night. Two, if they've got any brains in their heads."

"Danny—"

"Montana," he echoed, brushing the hair back from her face. "Don't know if you noticed, but those guys beat the shit out of you. That's not something you just shake off."

"You would."

He had to laugh at her nerve. Yeah, it was probably true. Barring internal bleeding, he'd have checked himself out of the hospital, with or without a doctor's consent, and then showed up back at the lab the next day. Mac would have pitched a fit. So would she, if he had to take a guess.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that, but I can deal with my pain just fine. Yours is a different story."

A soft flush rose into her cheeks and, as much as he enjoyed seeing it there, he didn't want her embarrassment.

"Look, Linds," he said, shifting so he could look her full in the face, "I know it's a little early for the whole 'Where are we going with this?' talk, but I'm gonna say something and I want you to hear it: Whether you like it or not, I give a damn about what happens to you. It's been that way for a while now, and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere, so you can play this off however you want, but I'm still going to be here, making sure you're taking care of yourself."

She looked away, pressing her lips together when they started to tremble, and he pulled her face back with a finger under her chin.

"Lindsay, talk to me."

She shook her head, her breath catching before it could become a sob, and he looked away so she might have a moment to collect herself. When she met his eyes again she seemed more in control of herself, a shaky, humorless smile on her lips.

"I was really scared, Danny," she said finally. "All day I sat there in that trailer, thinking that maybe tomorrow I'd spend the whole day in bed watching that spaghetti western marathon I saw advertised on the History Channel. Or maybe tomorrow I'd be laid out on a slab in autopsy, and Mac would be calling my Dad to say, 'Sorry, Mr. Monroe. Your daughter won't be home this Christmas.'"

Danny closed his eyes, wishing simultaneously that he didn't have to hear it and that she hadn't had to think it.

"But I couldn't say it, you know, because if I said it then they'd know it, and Adam was counting on me to hold it together… and all I kept thinking was that I could've been back on that stupid pool table, sleeping the morning away with you."

She put her hand over the one he laid against her cheek, leaning into it as her control began to splinter and her eyes filled with tears. This was what he'd been waiting for—the adrenaline letdown, the emotional crash. It was almost a relief to see it; it meant she was letting herself start to cope.

"I could've died today, Danny."

He leaned forward and put his arms around her as best he could, what with the wires and her cast and his fear that he might hurt her. "Shh, baby, you're okay. You're okay. You made it out." He whispered the words against her temple and into her hair, ignoring the awkward position and the wetness of her tears on his shoulder. "God, I am so proud of you for making it out of there."

She'd been holding it together so bravely ever since they'd gotten her out—before that, even. From what Adam had said, since the very beginning she'd handled everything that had been thrown at her, and now it was her time to break. So he let her cry, let her cling to him with all the strength in her broken body. In truth, he needed it as much as she did—to feel her there, alive and breathing. To not feel powerless anymore.

He pressed his lips to hers—once, twice, a lingering third—and finally let himself believe it was really over. She was safe; they were together. It was all he needed.

Her voice was thin when she spoke again, shaky and exhausted. "Just so you know, I'm really glad you're not going anywhere."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Damn right, I'm not."

* * *

_A/N: Okay, here's the deal: I know I promised another chapter or two, but as I said, now that all the big, scary action is over with the characters are being slightly uncooperative. I have one more chapter written, but it's not an end chapter, and the one after that is being a pain in my ass…_

_So, for now, until I can kick my muse into gear and write something vaguely endish without it rambling on like a socially awkward sixteen-year-old, this is it. The end. For now. _

_Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing so faithfully, and for all your wonderful input. You make my dull, 9-to-5 life seem bright and shiny. _


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